My first girl-boy party takes place by accident. It happens while my parents are off to a New England Patriots game on a bright October Sunday. After a three-day cold snap, the weather has turned warm again as summer-like temperatures lend a carefree air to the afternoon. I invite four girlfriends to spend the night. Monday is a school holiday. Frozen pizza, the latest downloaded music, and streaming video on our HDTV is the plan.
But, somehow the word gets out that there are no parents at 121 Horseshoe Bend Drive. As the sun sets, the temperature begins to drop, and by 6:00 p.m., I am screaming at Kevin Sacks to, “Bring that golf cart back right now.”
At first I think if I ignore Kevin and his gang of boys, they’ll go away. But, my girlfriends are excited that the boys have shown up. They all go outside to join in and see what the guys are doing, which encourages them to continue showing off. Soon, the garage door is open and Kevin is on his way down the road in my father’s brand new golf cart. Kevin is one of those affluent kids that teeters on the edge of juvenile delinquency just for the fun of it. The boys now wreaking havoc in my front yard are all kids I’ve known since grade school.
The water hazard for the sixteenth hole is just beyond our back property line. On Saturday mornings Dad proudly drives the shiny white fiberglass vehicle along our neighborhood roads to the first tee for a round of eighteen. When I watch him drive off, I can’t help but start singing a show tune from Oklahoma, “With isinglass curtains you can roll right down, in case there’s a change in the weather.” With Kevin at the wheel, I can only hear Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana running through my mind and I pray that this devil-boy will at least return the cart to the garage without scratching or denting it. Dad keeps careful records of the battery charge, which is exactly enough to get him to the club house, around the course, and back home before needing to be plugged in again. I know that even the slightest differential will catch his attention.
Mom often says, “Never lie to me. I will find out. It may not be today or tomorrow, but I will find out.” These words occupy my thoughts as I try to invent a way of hiding the evolving situation from my parents. The truth is out of the question since it will be irrelevant to my mother that I have not planned this party. Guilty until proven innocent is her modus operandi. When I hear the glass on one of the basement windows break, I know I am in deep shit. A prescient image of Dad’s cart coming to a dead stop halfway up Day Star Drive next Saturday on his way home flashes before my eyes. I shiver with the realization that I am unlikely to get myself out of this mess.
After Kevin and the boys leave, and my girlfriend get-together returns to normal, I go out into the garage to see if there’s anyway with which I can hide the awful truth of the evening. I see Dad’s battery charger tucked away on his workbench, the cord folded up in a way only he knows how to do. There’s a twisty wound around it so it doesn’t come undone, and there’s probably a prescribed number of twists in it. The cart sits in its proper place—at least Kevin had the wherewithal to accomplish that task. I remove one of the seat bottoms as I’ve seen my dad do and stare at the batteries. I haven’t the slightest idea how to hook that charger up to them to make sure they have a full charge for next Saturday morning. I sigh in resignation to the fact that I’m going to have to tell Dad what happened. Although Dad is capable of extraordinary anger, he can be a reasonable man if handled right. I make my plan.
I wait until the following Wednesday when Mom is away for the evening at church for a monthly meeting of women who then spend two hours discussing their assigned Bible reading. Pastor Schoenboem leads the discussion with his considerable ecclesiastical abilities.
I sit for almost ten minutes about mid-way down the steps to the basement and watch Dad read his newspaper. He keeps a peripheral eye on his television show. He occasionally scratches his dry scalp. I finally muster up the courage and call out, “Dad?”
He turns his head toward the sound of my voice, makes a face that clearly shows he’s confused to see me sitting there, and grunts, “Huh?”
I get up off the step and walk down the rest of the stairs and over to the couch adjacent to his white leather Lazy Boy. “Dad, I need to tell you something.” I try to put a business-like tone in my voice. “Please try not to get angry,” I begin, “And promise me you won’t tell Mom.”
Dad pushes his lips out almost like he’s puckering up to give someone an exaggerated kiss as he considers my request. Measuring his response he replies, “We’ll see.”
I explain as best I can what happened last Sunday. I tell him I’ve been scared all week to tell him that I am certain his cart won’t make it back home after his golf game. Hell, I’m not even sure it will make it the whole eighteen holes. Dad is silent and focuses his full attention on me. It occurs to me that I am getting his businessman look—the one he uses at work when sorting out rational facts and irrational feelings.
I wait patiently for the judge and jury to bring in the verdict.
Dad absently scratches his head, his newspaper flopped forward in his lap as he considers what he is about to say. “Well,” he begins, “I guess I’d better go up and plug the cart in so it has a full charge.”
I nod my head in agreement. I am thankful for the lack of malice in his voice. “Uh, Dad,” I add, “There’s one other problem.” Dad lets out a big sigh turning a dangerous eye my way. I grimace as I say, “They also broke one of the basement windows.” His face visibly flushes so I rush on to say, “I covered it up with a towel so the cold air wouldn’t come in and I’ll pay for it if I have to.” I am stretching my dad’s patience to the limit now, but I have to tell him about the window, because I don’t have the foggiest notion how to get that fixed.
“Anything else?” he questions with barely controlled anger simmering in his voice.
“No,” I shake my head, “That’s the extent of the damage.”
Dad pushes forward in his Lazy Boy, tosses his paper to the side, and walks to the back of the basement to inspect the window. I bite my fingernails and chew on the skin around them as I nervously await his return. “I’ll let you know the cost after I get that fixed,” he mutters as he comes back through the TV area and then heads up the steps presumably to plug the golf cart in. Now it is my turn to sigh.
The worst is over assuming he doesn’t tell Mom. I will not ask him again to keep it to himself.
When two weeks pass and Mom still hasn’t said anything, I know that Dad has decided to keep the incident a secret.
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